The Vault of Poseidon

CHAPTER EIGHT

“We need a vehicle right now.” Hawke saw the quickest option ahead of the museum’s Fifth Avenue entrance. An empty car was idling in a line of traffic — its owner had gotten out and seemed to be arguing about something with the driver of a cab parked behind him.

“That’s our ride right there,” Hawke said. “Come on, be quick and be quiet.”

“This is beyond a joke,” said Ryan as they climbed into the 1935 Ford hot rod, complete with flames painted on the hood, a visible engine and double exhaust cut-outs.

Ahead of them, Vetsch and his men were making their escape in a black Mercedes S-Class.

They climbed into the hot rod, Hawke at the wheel, and a second later were racing up Fifth Avenue, the roar of the twin exhausts making the owner and just about everyone else in uptown Manhattan turn in horror.

On the road, Hawke slammed the throttle down and was impressed by the Ford’s sharp acceleration and the ludicrous roar of the suped-up flathead V8 engine. “I’ve never driven a hot rod before,” he said, nodding with appreciation.

“Simple things amuse simple people, I suppose,” sighed Ryan.

Lea smiled. “It’s pretty cool, actually.”

“Oh, come off it,” Ryan said. “You’re not actually impressed by this sort of thing, are you? You realize men drive cars like this as compensation for their inadequate penis size.”

Hawke smirked. “Is that a fact?”

“A well-known one in certain circles.”

“Circles of jealous losers, you mean?”

“Both of you, stop it,” Lea shouted.

“I’m just stating a fact about men, cars and small penis size.”

“Well, you would know, Ryan,” Lea said, causing him to redden. A smirk spread on Hawke’s lips.

Hawke accelerated the Ford and weaved through the traffic, leaving a sea of angry car horns and fist-waving in the rear-view. The Mercedes skidded around to the left and joined East Drive heading into Central Park where it sped up and overtook several slower-moving vehicles who swerved to let it pass.

Irate joggers waved their water bottles at him and swore brashly, but to no effect. Seconds later they were doing the same thing to Hawke and the hot rod as he tore past them and sharpened his pursuit of Zaugg’s team.

It was now that the Mercedes slowed and skidded across the cycle lane to the left, mounted the grassed area and cut across the footpath. A man selling hotdogs jumped to safety before shouting abuse and angrily waving a pair of cooking tongs in the air.

“Where the hell are they going?” Hawke asked as passers-by in their path screamed and scattered.

“North Meadow — it's where the baseball fields are.” Lea waved her iPhone at Hawke. “I just got a map of Manhattan up so we can see what’s what.”

“Ah,” Hawke said, giving the phone a sly, sideways glance. “I was wondering how long it would take you to think of that.”

The Merc left the meadow, smashed clean through a chainlink fence and accelerated in a violent swerving weave until it hit West Drive.

It chewed up great clods of frozen earth and muddy snow which sprayed up behind it as the powerful car raced forward. Finally it hit the tarmac and bounced violently up and down before settling into a renewed acceleration.

One of the men inside was now leaning out the rear window, his hair blowing wildly in the cold wind as he recklessly aimed an Uzi at the hot rod.

He fired off a few bursts. More screaming people dived for cover while others hurriedly dialled emergency services on their cell phones.

With the gap closing, Lea leaned out the right side of the hot rod and took a couple of shots at the Merc, missing with the first but taking out the rear window with the second.

Vetsch swerved in response but soon regained contol.

“You’re getting there,” said Hawke with a patronizing smile.

Lea was taking another aim and said calmly: “Were you smacked too hard as a child, Joe Hawke?”

Before he could answer she fired another two shots, this time taking out the rear left tire in an explosion of black, shredded rubber.

“Better,” Hawke said. “Better.”

The Merc swerved violently across West Drive before plowing across the western strip of Central Park, skidding uncontrollably on some snow and narrowly avoiding a high-speed impact with the bough of an oak tree.

Hawke smiled. “That’s more like it. He nearly lost it then.”

Vetsch fought to maintain control, over-revved and smashed through a low brick wall before finally hitting Central Park West.

He tried to corner too fast. His one rear tire broke traction and after a moment of terrifying oversteer during which Hawke wondered if some pedestrians might get killed, the Merc rammed into a U-Haul truck at a busy junction and its journey was almost at an end.

The U-Haul’s cargo trailer was badly smashed, but the Mercedes came off worse, spinning around like a toy car against the impact with the heavy GMC truck.

It slammed through a One Way sign before finally coming to a stop with its nose in the front window of a dry cleaner’s store, burst radiator steaming in the cold air.

Realizing that the rot rod was only about five seconds from meeting the same fate as the Merc, Hawke hit the brakes and after an unsettling moment of sliding sideways in the snowy grass he steered into the skid until the tires got some traction back. He gently tapped the brakes and brought the hot rod to a stop.

“Is it over?” asked Ryan, peering over their shoulders from the back seat.

“Almost.” Hawke pointed at the Merc. “Just be thankful it didn’t catch fire.”

Then the Merc caught fire.

Flames flickered out from beneath the hood and Vetsch and his men screamed and started to scramble to safety.

Hawke sighed. “Absolutely bloody fantastic. I hope the gold disc’s not in there.”

“That’ll flush the bastards out though.” Lea checked the Smith & Wesson. “Only three rounds left.”

“I’ve still got all seven,” Hawke said. “And Rupert here hasn’t fired any either, have you Rupert?”

Pedestrians scattered away from the burning engine, but stayed close enough to film it on their phones.

Meanwhile. the stationary U-Haul truck in the middle of the junction was causing heavy tailbacks along Central Park West. Drivers were getting out of their cars and leaning over their doors to see what was going on, expressing themselves with the usual New York niceties.

“And you can fuck off, too!” Hawke said to one of them as he climbed out of the ageing Ford. The man began to remonstrate with him until the moment Lea and Ryan got out to join him and all three brandished their Smith & Wessons, at which point he bid them good day and shrank back into his Chevrolet.

“They’re trying to escape!” Lea shouted.

Vetsch and his men were now clambering dazed and confused from the burning wreck of the Mercedes. They fired a few shots randomly in the direction of the junction to keep Hawke at bay.

Hawke, Lea and Ryan ducked down behind the hot rod and winced as they heard bullets slam into the other side of the car with a deep metallic plunking sound.

“We have to get that golden fragment,” said Hawke.

“Easier said than done,” Lea said, craning her head over the hood and firing another shot at Vetsch and his men.

Hawke heard Vetsch screaming a command at his men, and seconds later they ran back to the burning car.

“They’re trying to get the golden arc out,” he said. “Now’s our chance.”

“What are you going to do?” Ryan asked.

“I want you two to put as much fire as you can on them,” he said, handing Lea his pistol. “I’m going to get that piece of gold back. Whatever it is, we need it, and we don’t want Zaugg to have it.”

Ryan stared at his gun with incomprehension, while Lea leaned confidently over the hood, a gun in each hand, and started firing at the men.

She hit the man who had returned to the car, and he collapsed screaming to the ground, clutching his upper leg. Seeing his comrade fallen, the other man retreated, despite Vetsch screaming for him to return.

Hawke was in a forward position now, covered by a parked Toyota just a few yards from the Merc. He heard the sirens of the emergency services as they closed in on them, and doubted Sir Richard Eden had all that much influence with the NYPD but guessed he’d find out one way or the other.

One of the men stepped forward, but Hawke lunged toward him and grabbed the man’s weapon in one hand, disarming him, while thrusting his other hand forward in a lethal tiger-punch which landed with a sickening crunch in his windpipe. He fell to the ground wheezing, purple-faced as the pedestrians looked on with a mix of horror and entertainment.

Another man ran toward Hawke, but the Englishman whirled around just in time to fire a classic double-tap into him and he lurched forward like a tailor’s dummy, tumbling onto the sidewalk and rolling into the gutter.

Vetsch fired at Hawke, but he was prepared for the volley of Uzi fire and ducked behind another car for some instant cover. He raised the gun over the hood to return fire when he saw Vetsch was trying to take a passer-by hostage to save his own skin.

Vetsch’s heavy hand gripped the woman around her waist and pulled her toward him with the ease of a bear flipping a salmon out of a river.

But seconds later she spun around, effortlessly slipping out of his grasp and brought her right knee up into his groin with eye-watering power and accuracy while simultaneously raising her clenched fist into the downward trajectory of his face.

The results weren’t pretty, but she cleared things up with a well-aimed crescent kick that launched him backwards down the ramp of a multi-storey car park.

Hawke was speechless.

The woman shrugged her shoulders. “Self-defense classes,” she said, and picked up her bag.

Hawke knew they had to get the golden arc and get the hell out of there before the cops came or they would be in jail until cockroaches took over the earth.

Lea fired and struck Vetsch’s last man in the upper body, exploding his chest and throat and propelling him through the air like a doll until he crashed down on the hood of a silver BMW. Hawke whistled through his teeth: “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of that girl.”

With all of his men down and Lea’s fire now turned on him, Vetsch cursed and ran deeper into the underground car park.

Hawke seized the moment and sprinted toward the burning wreckage. Dozens of people were filming him on their phones as he shielded his eyes from the heat and smoke and peered into the Merc for the golden fragment.

The sound of the sirens grew louder — almost at the junction, he thought. Then he saw the gold, lying on the rubber mat in the front passenger’s footwell. The flames were now inside the car, licking at the walnut-veneer dashboard and leather steering wheel, and the cab was filling with pungent, toxic fumes.

He dropped the gun and leaned in to grab the fragment, shoving it into his pocket, and then turned to the pedestrians. “Get out of here before she blows, you bloody idiots!” And with that he sprinted back to Lea and Ryan who were waiting back with the hot rod.

He held up the piece of gold and smiled. “They were actually very obliging in the end.”

“Are you sure about that, cowboy?” Lea gestured over his shoulder.

Hawke turned to see Vetsch exiting the car park at speed on a vintage Harley-Davidson. He skidded to a halt alongside the body of his dead comrade and picked up his Uzi before turning the handlebars in the direction of the hot rod, his face a rictus of hatred and revenge.